


The very first time(s)

by KeiserFranz



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkwardness, Eventual Smut, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26947729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeiserFranz/pseuds/KeiserFranz
Summary: A collection of John and Paul's first milestones in their relationship.
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 16
Kudos: 58





	1. Asking out

Paul steps out of the shower with a persistent frown between his brows. "There is no need to overthink it," he reasons as he slips into his pyjamas.

Except it is.

It's been a year since John's divorce with Cynthia, and an equally long period since Paul decided to own up to his feelings.

He likes to think it's not his fault nothing has happened yet. George always scoffs at that, rolling his eyes - it's entirely and solely _your_ fault, Paul, dear.

Paul tumbles around in the bed, his head heating up as he rakes his brain for the best formulation.

"John? I'd like to tell you something." Good lord, sounds like a cheap soap opera. "Would you like to go on a date with me?" Yes, go on, sound like a middle schooler. John'd have a grand laugh, at least. "I think I like you more than a friend." Like you? Glossing over the fact I've loved him since I was 15, subtle.

It's infuriating because it's true. He has been smitten since their first meeting. And, though, it may be an innocent crush at the beginning, it certainly blossomed into something precious. Something lethal, too, as no matter how many girls have sat on Paul's lap or how many shiny lips have glided over his pouty ones, John still occupied a special place, able to lure Paul back with the tiniest of winks.

His world crumbled apart the day he found out about the divorce. Because the entire time, almost a decade now, he'd not hoped for his dream to be true. It terrified him because he accepted the fact John got married, had to for Julian and his aunt's approval, and Cyn couldn't be more lovely, but the possibility of John, his Johnny, falling in love with someone who wouldn't be Paul, that would devastate him.

He almost blurted his feeling on the spot, the fear of losing John rushing through his body, but refrained. Because it dawned on him he would rather have his heart in tatters, than to prevent John from being happy. He deserved that after all.

George, the only person aware of the mayhem swirling inside Paul's head, became a true supporter of the McLennon, constantly nagging Paul about taking his head out of his arse and act like a brave McCartney Jim could be proud of.

So, Paul did break up with Jane, not wanting to lead her on, then pondered the next step. Was doing the same thing a year later.

The amount of pointed looks he's been receiving from George is ridiculous. And by the looks of it, Brian and Ringo started to catch up, too. In fact, Paul expected a gentle pep talk about self-acceptance and importance of unbottling one's feelings any time soon. It's laughable, really.

That's why he decided to resolve the whole situation tomorrow. He's going to visit John, been doing that for a while now, two bachelors lazying around, composing songs and fooling with their instruments. Sometimes Ringo and George would join them, but Paul relished their private session to point he felt bad about neglecting his other friends.

Paul stirs, sleep heaving his eyelids, and he can't help the tremor of excitement.

Tomorrow.

  


  


Tomorrow is today, and Paul's confidence has deflated immensely.

He's been in John's flat for 3 hours now, even met Julian with Cynthia when he arrived, but so far he hasn't even brushed the sensitive topic. John's tired, he can tell from the shadows under his eyes and the way his facade of indifference lies askew on his face. He looks incredibly soft, with his tousled hair, gentle eyes and a stupid, chunky sweater. 

Paul wants to kiss him and tuck him in, make him tea and let him complain about waking up too early. He opts for the tea, may as well busy himself, and as he gets up, announcing his plan, John's grateful smile tugs at his heart.

He watches the smoke roll out of the cigarette, they always smoke in silence, rising to the ceilings. John has an unfocused look on his face, the one that indicates he's withdrawn to the world of his own. 

Paul opens his mouth to stutter the words of goodbye, a sour feeling of not doing anything already spreading through his body. John looks up, the movement startling him awake, his eyes fixed on Paul's as he stubs his fag.

"Could you stay, please?"

  


  


He emerges from a different bathroom with the same frown. He's been scolding himself in the steamy room, cursing his cowardice and trying to come with some clever line to make up for it. To no avail.

He is half expecting John to fall asleep after he realises it took him almost an hour. (He has to himself for John's taunting about his prissy hygiene habits.) To his surprise, he did not leave the living room, now sprawled across the carpet and drawing in the rhythm of Elvis crooning in the background.

There are two mugs of hot chocolate on the table. Paul snorts, shaking his head and John throws a wicked grin in his direction. The one that is so rare to witness lately.

Resuming his previous position, Paul takes the notebook they scramble their ideas into, eager to see whether John made any corrections in his absence. The chocolate warms him pleasantly, and he has to admit John's suggestions regarding the lyrics are much better. He voices it to John, receives a thumbs-up.

"Do me best to impress the genius McCartney."

Paul doesn't feel offended, he sees past John's antics to recognise it for it is. Masked insecurities. The muted light encouraging him, Paul stares at John seriously.

"You are a true genius."

He knows he can make John to face him, observes the faint blush when he finally lifts his head from random doodles, prepared for a silly banter. John's voice is small when he mouths "yeah" and immediately ducks his head.

Usually, Paul would stop there, but not tonight. It feels like the words would choke him if he didn't let them out.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Are-are you seeing anybody?"

He has no idea what has possessed him to ask that. And as soon he sees John's shoulders tensing, he knows he should have shut his gob. So many hours in shower wasted.

"Yeah, 4 blokes and, like, 6 damsels. Already been proposed twice. You?"

There is an annoyed edge to John's voice, but when Paul catches the glimpse of his face he can see the hurt plastered all over it. He supposes he could have a lobotomy and still would have a better estimation for social situations.

"Sorry," he hurries to add, hoping he would be forgiven. "I didn't mean to-."

John sighs tiredly, sitting up and taking off his glasses.

"Of course I'm not seeing anybody, Paul. Can't you just look at me and tell? I'm a shitty person, was a shitty husband, can't even sleep with lights off. Mommy's left, daddy's left, and they were all right. Suppose you don't have a friend interested in dating a walking failure, do you?"

Paul didn't envision it to go like this. He knew John was struggling with his self-esteem, was aware of his family situation, but he overestimated the effect of therapy he attended. He hasn't heard John screaming at least for two years now, at it baffles him at first before he joins, yelling from the top of his lungs.

"Me. It's me, you idiot, I'd date you! I want to date you."

It seems to do the trick, as John's eyes are bulging out in shock.

"Huh?"

Paul's eyes are wide in horror, the palm of his left hand plastered over his mouth as soon as the adrenaline drops down. Cringing inwardly, he attempts to smoothen the situation.

"Yeah, I, eh, you know, would would would." 

It's useless, really, pathetic too, because there is no way he could play that as a joke. Furthermore, he doesn't want to.

"I mean, yeah, I'd like to take you for a date, actually. If you don't mind, that is."

John's eyes are narrowed, and he scrutinises him with his glasses on.

"You don't have to do it because I just threw a fit."

Paul has the urge to groan at how stubborn John can be.

"It's not because you threw a fit, been wanting to do it from, err, for a long time."

John still doesn't seem to buy it, but at least he allows himself to relax, releasing his pursed lips.

"What kind of date then?"

"Ehh, movies?"

It's the first rational thing popping in his head. Because it's happening. He asked John out and, he didn't reject him. At least not yet. Maybe mOviEs weren't the best idea? It did sound old school a bit. He should have browsed some "best venues for your first date with a best friend of yours you've been loving for ages" articles.

"Movies. Tomorrow?"

John nods as if to confirm the reality to himself, his gaze intense as he awaits for Paul's answer. As if he suspects him from calling it off any second.

"Whenever you want to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look who is posting in less than 24 hours again and is absolutely shameless about it (well, maybe I bit)


	2. Date

Paul squirms in his seat, restraining himself from looking at John. He no longer curses the swarms of people who, too, decided to visit a movie theatre in the early evening. Instead, the noises they make absorb the pounding of his heart, while the dim light covers Paul's bright red cheeks. 

John, on the other hand, had adopted the look of a sphinx, eyes transfixed on the grand screen. If it wasn't for the way he almost stopped in tracks when their hands accidentally brushed on their way to the place, Paul would think he didn't experience any jitters at all.

John also hasn't uttered a word since they entered the room, no matter how silly the commercials before the actual movie are. Paul adds it to the pile of things that have changed. 

They are floating in the grey area of uncertainty -- neither friends, nor lovers. Everything has been thrown in the air, up, up, up, and he hopes for something magnificent.

He rummages through all the different dates he has been on, trying to figure what a proper next step would be only to declare it pointless. For the very first time in ages, Paul can't rely on his experience and dashing young man attire. 

It is comforting as much as it is awful. Trying to get John's attention, Paul regresses to their early friendship when gestures served them far better than actual words, nudging John's knee as if to ask alright? Soon, to Paul's greatest relief, John's knee presses back. He hears the other man shuffling around and risks a quick peep, accidentally making eye contact, because John is staring at him, and Paul _can't_ look away.

His gut feeling is screaming kiss kiss kiss, but even though Paul agrees, he doesn't fancy knocking the air of John this way. Or rather, he wishes nothing else, but he doesn't know how or when or why.

Instead, his gaze drops down to John's hand splayed across the armrest -- pale and graceful, every inch an artist's tool. Paul realises he has never felt it against his own. He hesitates for a sec, weighing pros and cons of taking the huge step, IS about to take the aforementioned step when painfully loud music echoes, followed by lights.

He just ignored a 2 hours long movie. For fuck's sake. ~~And wasted the perfect opportunity to hold John's hand.~~

They stagger out, the cold air slapping them out of their slumbrous state. It is an alluring night, though, adorned with a bright sky. Paul's heart skips a beat when John suggests they take a stroll and maybe try to find a coffee shop open this late or _something_. His voice is unusually timid, Paul agrees before he has time to panic.

Somehow, they slip into a conversation easily, John considering it essential Paul would understand the plot twist (or the plot itself) and diving right into a thorough explanation of the movie. They are lucky to stumble upon a tearoom -- almost empty and open till 3 am -- and continue their babbling over a cup of strong black tea. 

"-then the maid, you know the one, NO? That one who was killed right at the beginning? Yes. So, surprise, she was an old acquaintance of Herold and came back for money..."

John's in his element, barely stopping to take a few sips in favour of disentangling the very complicated story, always a huge fan of a good thriller. Paul asks him stupid questions, again and again, because he finds that it is when John is too engrossed that he can ogle his hands in peace.

"...and, of course, Herold was the biggest jerk all the way along. I cannot say I was surprised, reminded me of an old teacher of mine, such an arse, really. But that's just a little detail, because, behold, he's not the murderer-"

Paul relishes the gasp he manages to elude when he finally scoops enough courage to trace the outline of John's wrist. The other man is quiet now, eyes shifting from their hands to Paul's face with caution. But he doesn't tell him to stop, nor yanks it back, and Paul continues, mapping the pleasantly rough surface.

"W-what are you doing?"

Paul shrugs. "You have beautiful hands."

John flushes at that, muttering a quiet shurrup before focusing on stirring his tea. Something he already did.

Paul only chuckles, mouthing an amused no back, not stopping. Finally, John turns his hand, palm up, fingers curling around Paul's.

They sit like that for what feels like ages but is more likely 20 minutes before paying and departing to the night.

They both insist on walking the other home, a conflict only a coin can solve. Betting it all on tails, Paul whoops gleefully when he wins the round. And the following 2, because John doesn't like the result.

They choose the same route, only this time they hands brush a lot more frequently. It also seems to be shorter as in no time flat they are before John's door, both having zero ideas as for how to bid a farewell.

John has not fished his keys yet and is fumbling with the sleeve of his coat. 

"This was, eh, very nice."

Yet, again, Paul is surprised with the softness in John's voice. Hell, he has seen him around many gals and guys, but this is something that both excites and startles him. He takes the tinniest step forward, clearing his throat, pretending he doesn't want to snog his best friend right here.

"Yeah, it was."

John laughs breathlessly, and before Paul can comprehend what is happening, there are lips on his cheek in a form of a fleeting kiss.

They are both flustered and giddy, maybe too much for one little peck, but it's too late to ponder that.

Paul can't help the smile tugging at his lips, even when seated in the cab. The driver makes a good-natured remark about the importance of love. 

He is just about to climb into bed when there is a ping announcing a new message. He winces when the too-bright screen almost burns his eyes, then turns on his stomach with a megawatt grin when he finds out it's John checking whether he made it safe.

He can't understand why it took him so long to ask him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul said I want to hold your hand, and I took it from there, eh
> 
> also, I aimed for them being awkward, but it turned to be awkward awkward awkward, sorry for that


	3. Kiss

3 weeks have flown by since their first date.

3 weeks stuffed with photoshoots, interviews featuring the same repetitive questions, pre-Christmas shows and lack of sleep. Usually, even Paul grows annoyed with the never-ceasing attention, but not this time, as it provides him with endless possibilities to be close to John.

He doesn't have to hide his feelings beneath the mask of friendship anymore. It's liberating and frightening at the same time -- Paul's heart flutters, beats frantically, then settles whenever John searches for his eyes. It is happening.

For so long Paul had been sure he would die without confessing his feelings, didn't even dream of John reciprocating them. And, naturally, he grew used to the yearning, considering it an inseparable part of himself, such as his legs or nose, something that wouldn't change. 

But now, now that things started to move, are moving every second, he finds himself struggling to grasp the new concept. There is no security, no reassurance, he feels like he jumped down and has been falling ever since. With a peculiar sense of uneasiness he notices how each day of those 3 weeks brings something new about John, something he hasn't seen, hasn't heard, hasn't paid attention to before. Every tiny smile sent his and his way only, the annoyed glance John not so subtly directs at him when the journalists begin to poke too personal matters, the way John's nose looks from the side...

He is falling, falling, falling.

Paul doesn't understand emotions that much as he would like or, rather, fears understanding them. He comes to the conclusion John doesn't excel in this field, either. In fact, they haven't ventured further physically or verbally. Paul doesn't know which should concern him more. 

"Have a chat and shag afterwards," George suggests calmly, as they go for a walk. Paul rakes his brain for the reason he keeps the other man as his best friend. Then tries to explain the invisible change between John and himself. Struggling.

George remains totally unbiased, thick brows furrowed as he tries to comprehend Paul's babbling. "If you talk about that eye-fucking thing you constantly do, I'm afraid it's not that invisible, mate."

They cackle like a pair of schoolboys because it is George's way to tell him to stop thinking. And stop thinking about thinking. And Paul knows George knows about the subtle change in the McLennon's dynamic, too, because it translates naturally into the way they act individually.

John has become so much calmer and content. He doesn't pick up unnecessary fights, and, in turn, Paul's harsh edges have smoothened to.

They do spend more time together, mainly in John's flat, but Paul always goes back to his place. He doesn't question why because he knows it is right. Before, as he half-jokingly refers to the time before he decided to open his mouth, he always imagined he wouldn't be able to get his hands off John, taking in account the way they both behaved, letting their dicks do the thinking, but the reality surprises him.

It reminds him of the early years of their friendship. They do sit and toy with instruments, secretly glancing at the other, trying not to get caught. There is a similar air of unknown surrounding them and they dance around each other to figure out the next step. 

A fresh thought finally appears, after he comes back one day, Martha jumping at him to say hi, hello, salut. He knows.

~~~~~

"What is it?" John grumbles, as Paul leads him into the safety of Cavendish, both hands splayed over the other man's eyes. "A surprise, John." He shots back, feeling like an exhausted parent. He tries to communicate to Martha to stop trying to join their weird game as he manoeuvres John to the living room.

The scene is seemingly alright, but Paul scrutinises it once more, alright being too far away from perfect for his taste. He has learnt not to take everything this seriously in recent years, but this is John he is trying to impress, for god's sake.

With a quiet wish John likes it he retreats his hands, holding his breath like he is 5 again and about to show his mother a drawing he's been working the whole afternoon.

The soft hum of surprise he receives in return tops every bass line Paul has ever created.

"Oh," John turns to him, then back, his cheeks growing pink. "It's-it's a picnic."

Paul nods, doesn't know what he should add, how to elaborate John's comment. He recalled doing something similar, albeit in summer and outside, a while ago. Julia had organised a little picnic for John and the girls, and John did think to invite him.

The air tasted sweet, Paul mused about John lips pressed against his, enjoying the interaction between the mother and her son. John walked him back, awfully joyful, plotting a way to recreate something similar for just the two of them.

Then Julia wasn't anymore, and the plan got covered with dust. Forgotten.

Till today, Paul pulled the curtains close, creating a cosy atmosphere. purchased tons of candles then called George to discuss how many candles were too many. He gathered all the pillows and built something akin to a fort on the floor. And, most importantly, bought every single treat he knew John liked. Talk about sappy.

"Bloody hell, IT IS A PICNIC, PAUL!" John yells excitedly, resembling a toddler again, before lunging forward to hug him. Paul catches a whiff of his shampoo, squirms slightly at the way John's breath puffs against the skin of his neck. 

~~~~~

Somehow, Paul didn't notice; too busy with fighting for crumbs of a chocolate cake, John has deposited his head to his lap, munching at strawberries.

Just like a cat, no hesitation. And, similar to a cuddly feline, he doesn't protest when Paul caresses his face, holding his breath, because OHMYGOD John's skin is so, so soft. Or plays with his hair, letting the fluffy strands sneak away from between his fingers.

Paul's eyes are glued to John's lips -- tinted red, slightly parted and overall inviting. He doesn't even care to feel inappropriate. He wonders what it would be like to feel them against his. Has never ceased to since John pecked him on the cheek.

His hesitant teenage-self gestures to fucking do it, and Paul waves him back before leaning in.

John hums in surprise at the ministration, and Paul dares to press firmer.

It's nothing raunchy, as they stay like that for a while, lips locked together, breaths mingling. But then John breaks it, reciprocating with hidden despair, and Paul loses it all. 

He pulls back slightly to pepper John's chin with little kisses, CHERISHES the kitten-like whine John expresses his discontent with. With one last peck to John's nose, he attacks the thin lips with a verve twice, three times, ten times stronger than before. His hands find their way into John's hair, tugging gently, as he drinks all the sounds it earns him.

Paul has never kissed a bloke before, is so glad it is John; with his strawberry/chocolate breath; square jaw dotted with stubble; lightly chapped lips and hoarse voice.

His neck hurts like hell, considering the awkwardness of the position, but Paul would rather strain himself than to stop for a sec. Though, he does hoist John up by his shoulders, smiling into the kiss at the hint of being able to do that. (And so much more!!) That is until John paws at his shirt, tackling him to the ground covered in pillows, not interrupting the kiss.

Paul opens his mouth to protest, doesn't get a chance, because John uses it as the opportunity to deepen the kiss, sneaking his tongue in, and Paul moans instead. John's beautiful hands are cradling his face, firmly yet the affection seeps through the gesture, while Paul's own trace John's back to settle on his bum. 

It goes on forever, which is a code for till they register weird slurping noises and find out Martha has decided to FEAST on the neglected food like a gourmet she is.

Neither of them knows who starts to giggle first, but they are howling like idiots in no time flat. Paul can't decide what he prefers -- kissing John or laughing with him. He opts for pulling the older man against his chest, arms encircling his body before planting fleeting kisses to John's hair, ears and neck, not waiting for the urge to laugh to subdue.

He can do both. Can't wait. Judging by the dreamy and slightly flabbergasted look plastered on John's face, it makes two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the tongue was there! I know, I know, shocking, everyone calm down
> 
> maybe they will even share a bed in the next chapter 🤪🥵😜


	4. Sleeping together (in all innocence, please)

Droplets of cold water pinch Paul's skin, waking him up, as he splashes it on his face. Over and over. In the hopes of, somehow, grounding himself. 

He is located in John's bathroom, so it all comes to a full circle, the whole situation reminding of the first day of school.

Jittery nerves announcing something new.

He's already showered, brushed his teeth, applied approximately 5 layers of different moisturisers. Yet, he scans the room for something else to do, something else to postpone the act of getting the heck out of there and...

...climb to the bed with John.

Yep. He is doing it. They are doing it. The question arose naturally as if they were sending song ideas back and forth. Which they were, originally, but when Paul got his arse out of Cavendish this morning, he fully expected to get back.

So, when John interrupted Paul's brief process of kissing him goodbye (for, like, 20 minutes because he COULD) by asking him to stay, Paul reacted with panic.

Not like 'good lord, I shall hope my face looks the same in the morning' kind of panic. More like 'blOoDy hell, IT'S HAPPENING, yes, YES, god, why did it take so long, wait, what about martha????" kind of panic. 

What followed was the most complex secret action that put James Bond in his place. In less than an hour Paul managed to get back to his place, pack too many essentials and fetch Martha. Only when he arrived back he found out he completely forgot pyjamas.

He will probably have a good laugh about this in the future, but right now he is almost shaking with excitement. He doesn't understand this, they wanked together, shared bed, even shagged in the same room, inches next to the other, right, not like there are many borders to cross. And he can't wait to lie next to John. But the nerves are wracking.

*****

Apparently, he is not alone in this weird emotional turmoil, as the scene in front of him reveals. John is standing by the bed, adorable in his baggy pyjamas, and fluffing the pillows while he converses with Martha.

"Do ye have an idea what kind of bed sheets your owner prefers?" He glances at her as if expecting a proper answer only to sign when she wordlessly reciprocates the stare. "Yeah, yeah, I know I should know it, been around him for a while but I don't. Like, I have roses and then some blank ones, y'see? And I dig the roses, to be honest, but again, what would Paul like, hmm?" 

Paul's heart melts as it always does when John shows just how soft he can get. He has always referred to him as 'his John', whenever the squinting eyes softened and words of affection came instead of some barky remark. Besides, it feels so, so good to be dotted on, though it should have remained a secret.

John hasn't regarded him at all, which indicates he is too engrossed by the process of choosing the perfect pattern. Paul strains himself not to make any sound as he creeps behind him, hoping Martha would gather her wits to get it is not a barking time.

Fortunately, the whole escapades of travelling from Cavendish to here seems to exhaust her, meaning Paul can stand directly behind John, before hugging him and pecking him under his ear.

"I dig the roses, too."

John shrieks, actually shrieks, like a cat being skinned. It earns him a half-arsed howl from the fury ball, it very much sounds like a dog version of 'shut up, human.'

Paul laughs, hiding his face into John's neck before he summons enough strength to kiss him instead. When he turns him around, so they are facing each other, it hits him how really beautiful his boyfriend? (haven't talked about that, yet) friend? (the kissing, ehm) John? (yeah, that's it) is. Face incredibly red from the shock and, Paul hopes, received attention, his eyes vulnerable and open, albeit a little shy. Paul rakes his fingers through the auburn tuft, while the other hand rubs John's shoulder.

"You look like a cute, little rose yourself."

John narrows his eyes, then whacks Paul's head with the pillow.

"One more disgustingly cheeky line and yer kipping on the floor with your barking sheep."

But the blush covering his cheeks deepens, Paul can see that, and, in return, he sports the biggest grin because, holy cow, **he** made John flustered.

Feeling bolder, Paul helps to finish the task, climbing in bed and eyeing John's movements. He discards the old sheets, gives Martha a good scratch, then -- just as he makes his way towards the switch to turn the light off -- he freezes. Paul notices immediately, doesn't understand it at first, so he follows John's gaze till it lands on the lamp on the nightstand. OH. 

Immediately, Paul's hand extends to switch it on. 

John wordlessly taps the switch, the room swallowed by a pleasantly dim glow. His face is veiled by the shadows, too, but Paul senses the discomfort and, what's even worse, the embarrassment, when he joins him in bed, keeping a gap between them.

The silence stretches forever, Paul ponders all the possible ways to let John know it is all okay but is afraid of pressuring him into opening up. To his delight, John breaks the silence himself.

"Thanks f-for," he trails off, probably trying to articulate his feelings while keeping it casual. Failing miserably. "-that "

Paul hums, inching closer, giving the other man time to pull away. He does not, and Paul leans in and delivers a sweet peck to his forehead.

"Any time."

It's probably the most intimate moment between them. And, despite the unusual speed of his heartbeat, not an ounce of hesitance rushes through Paul's head. 

He slides John's glasses off, before bringing his right hand to cradle his chin, the other skimming over the prominent nose till it settles on the apple of his cheek. "So beautiful," he breathes as he brushes their lips together, savouring the sensation. John is trembling, or maybe it's him, difficult to distinguish now, isn't it, as Paul focuses on drawing the moment out, gently, gently, gently.

The tender moments last exactly one minute before John groans and forces Paul back, then climbs onto his lap, resuming the kissing like they haven't seen each other for years. Pleasantly trapped, Paul lets him take the lead, encouraging him with exploring touches. His hands slide from John's shoulders to his hips, eventually daring to sneak under his t-shirt. The skin of his belly is warm and soft, Paul grazes it lovingly, earning himself a string of moans, John's own hands tugging at his hair. 

Despite the passion they both pull away at the same time, stunned expressions mirroring each other. Paul waits for his breathing to come to a normal pace, deciding to nudge the sensitive issue.

"Would you-shit, would you mind if we just, y'know, didn't do anything tonight?"

John is already nodding, fiddling with the hem of Paul's sleeve, visibly relieved. Paul can't be offended, really, not when he feels the same way.

They shuffle around for longer than they would like, figuring out the most comfortable position. Finally, Paul settles on his back, John tucked under his left arm -- head resting on Paul's chest, his hair threatening to tickle his nose.

It's so nice. Oddly normal, yet special. Comforting.

"'aven't done this for ages," John pipes, already half slurred. "Yer warm." He mumbles, pressing his face into Paul's sternum like a cat marking its territory. 

Paul smiles, tapping John's shoulders to let him know he heard him.

"I'm so glad it's you."

Because truly, he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, I am aware they would be probably balls deep in each other's bums by now, but we crave delicate interactions here (and, like, I've been writing bondage smut, one seat in hell is more than enough)


End file.
